Morning's Journey Read Online Free PDF

bowed his head and softly, in Ròmanaiche, began to pray. Niniane’s hand rested lightly on Angusel’s bandaged brow. She, too, bowed her head and added her treble voice to his chant.
    Caledonaich and Breatanaich alike moved to adopt an attitude of supplication. Morghe tightened her grip on Angusel’s breastplate and closed her eyes. Like Merlin and Niniane, most of the other Breatanaich—Arthur and Ygraine included—bowed heads and clasped hands together. Where room permitted, some knelt. The Caledonach way required eyes open, face turned skyward, arms outspread.
    Gyan scanned the heavens, but the God she sought reigned above the Caledonach pantheon.
    Earnestly, she begged the One God to heal her fallen comrade at whatever cost…even to the sacrifice of her life. She refused to contemplate how devastating his death would be to her.
    She heard a ragged gasp and glanced down, dashing away tears. Angusel’s chest rose and fell with a strong rhythm. His eyelids fluttered open. Slowly, he raised a hand to his temple and moaned.
    An image flashed to mind of a day several months earlier, when she’d seen a slave injure his back so badly that everyone believed he’d never walk again. After the intense prayers of his fellow Breatanaich, Rudd had limped from the accident site.
    Today’s results startled her no less.
    “It does work,” she murmured, in Breatanaiche, to no one in particular.
    “Indeed it does, Chieftainess.” The warrior-priest pushed to his feet, captured her hand, and gave it a pat. “If you have faith the size of but a mustard seed.”
    Merlin and Niniane stepped back into the circle of onlookers as Gyan dropped to one knee beside Angusel.
    “Did—did we win?” His Caledonaiche words sounded alarmingly weak.
    “Yes, Angus,” she answered in kind. Only then did she remember the fourth laurel crown, some of its leaves bruised by her fist. She pressed the fragrant wreath to his palm and closed his fingers around it. “You rode superbly. You have brought great honor to Argyll, to Alban, and to my consort and me.”
    He rewarded her praise with the crooked grin she’d come to love so well. Returning it, she silently thanked the One God for Angusel’s healing and vowed to discover the identity of the horseman who’d brought harm upon her sword-brother, though her heart presented but one choice.
    And the machaoduin would pay for his near-fatal mistake.

    URIEN FINISHED fastening his new bronze cavalry prefect’s brooch to his cloak and slipped its iron cousin into the pouch tied to Talarf’s saddlebow. “If anyone asks, Lucius was the second rider.” He kept his voice low, mindful that the games helm’s mouth slit amplified sounds, and glared at his teammates. “I rode fourth.”
    His men nodded, one with more vigor than the other two. Although the helms robbed identity, Urien knew the confident one. His clansman and longtime friend, Accolon, had done a commendable job of feigning trouble with his horse to set the stage for the accident. Of Accolon’s loyalty, Urien had no doubt.
    For the benefit of Lucius and Cato, Urien said, “The man who fails to remember this won’t live long enough to regret it.”
    With an angry jerk on the reins, the heir of Clan Moray wheeled his mount around and set heels to flanks. Talarf sprang toward the viewing platform, followed by the rest of the team.
    There she stood, the woman who should have been his: tall, proud, and as stunningly beautiful as on the wet October day he’d met her, clasping hands with the man who’d stolen her. After being forced to attend their wedding and nuptial feast, Urien thought he’d been exposed to all the pain he was ever going to feel. Seeing her again, though, like this…
    The heat under his helm wasn’t the only thing to rise, damn her.
    His gaze roved to the woman he would be marrying instead. In the last fortnight, Morghe had insinuated herself into Urien’s affections so thoroughly that the sight of her violet gown